


Blinded by the Light

by tiranog



Series: Walking in the Dark Series [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:51:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiranog/pseuds/tiranog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Waling in the Dark.  Mornings after are never what you expect them to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blinded by the Light

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to April Valentine for her amazing edit and her boundless enthusiasm and love of her fandom.

Harold Finch opened his eyes, snapping them shut immediately as a barrage of bright light assaulted them.  His instant response was panic.  The last few times he’d awoken to light this bright, he’d been in a hospital’s recovery ward.  But, a quick internal inventory revealed no new hurts, nor was he under the influence of morphine.  So, no hospital.  Where then?

 

The room was eerily silent. Way off in the distance, he could hear a siren howling, but no other traffic sounds.

 

He slowly reopened his eyelids.  The ceiling above the bed was vaulted and nearly fourteen feet high.  It only took him a moment to recognize the library’s rest room from the ceiling cracks above the bed.  He slept overnight here often enough.  But why had he left the overhead light on?  And, why was he naked?

 

Harold trailed the memory back.  Last night he’d gone to a baseball game with John and . . . .

 

His breath caught in his chest as he remembered.  An indiscreet look on his part had turned into a kiss, the kiss into a discussion, and from there. . . . he and John had made love, here in this room.  They’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms.

 

It had been so long since the explosion that had claimed Nathan's life and nearly crippled him that Harold no longer had to remind himself to turn his whole upper body to look to the side.  His eyes confirmed what his skin had already told him – the other side of the bed was empty.  It had been vacant so long that the sheets were cold, his palm confirmed.

 

Harold knew he shouldn’t be surprised, but somehow, he still was.  John had said the L word to him last night.  The feelings that crashed over him were as sharp as the shrapnel that had pierced his body the day his world had ended.

 

Last night with John was his first time since the explosion.  His first time with anyone other than Grace.  He hadn’t even known if he could have intercourse like a normal human being anymore.  But John had told him he’d take care of everything, and his friend had.  He’d never had sex like that in his life.  John on his knees going down on him.  The things that normally reticent man had said to him . . . John had shattered the numb, sexless world Harold had locked himself in since the ferry attack, leaving it as tattered as Harold’s self-control.  But he hadn’t minded too much, because John was there to hold onto.  Only, John wasn’t where he was supposed to be this morning.  John was gone.

 

How could John be gone?

 

One glance down his shattered hip and leg answered that question.  The wonder wasn’t that John had left, but that he had been here at all.

 

Harold recognized that, while what they’d shared last night had blasted his own reality to pieces, by most people's standards, it had been a tame and rather limited encounter.  John was a healthy, man.  Why would someone like that want to tie himself to someone who couldn’t . . . well, who couldn’t do nearly everything normal people did in bed?  How had he ever thought that he could have anything that someone like John would find attractive?

 

The _how_ of it wasn’t really a mystery.  All Harold had to do was remember some of the things John had said to him.  He’d been alone so damn long that he’d had no defense against those words. 

 

He knew John hadn’t set out to deceive him.  John had honestly been interested in him.  Clearly, the encounter hadn't been satisfying and John had taken the prudent path to avoid a painful morning after.  Harold’s brain understood completely. 

 

His heart was another matter.

 

But his heart was going to have to get with the program and grow up.  There would be another number soon and they were going to have to work together.  Unless John was so disenchanted by last night that he’d decided to move on entirely . . .

 

Gripped in that horrible possibility, Harold barely noticed the door opening.

 

The next thing he was fully conscious of was the seventy pound Bear launching himself across the room and bounding onto the empty spot in the bed beside him to bathe his face with wet licks.  The dog was behaving as if they’d been parted for months.

 

“Off, Bear, off . . . . umphf” Harold tried to restore order, but it was hard to be firm when a huge dog was doing its best to French kiss him.

 

“Come on, buddy, let the man breathe.  Off, Bear,” the note of command in John’s voice got the dog off the bed instantly.

 

Wiping slobber from his face with his right hand, Harold’s left swept out towards the nearby nightstand where he’d placed his glasses after John had fallen asleep in his arms last night.  Sight restored, he stared at the man in the doorway who, contrary to his earlier fears, was not on a plane to oblivion.

 

John was wearing the extra suit he kept in his supply shelves downstairs and his usual white shirt.  In his arms, he held several boxes and bags, from whence extremely enticing aromas arose.

 

“Good morning,” John greeted with a small, shy smile.

 

“Good morning,” Harold replied, frantically attempting to adjust his reality around this new development.  The empty bed, while devastating, he understood; this, not so much.

 

Harold had been masking his feelings for so long that it was second nature to him.  But, apparently John was as good at reading people as Harold was at hiding from them.  Harold watched the smile fade from John’s face, a puzzled frown taking its place.

 

“What’s up?  Did we get another number while I was out?”

 

Harold gave a slow shake of his head, at a loss to explain.

 

“Something’s wrong, though,” John said.

 

Harold released a slow breath, feeling very foolish. 

 

“You having second thoughts?”  Though the question was almost casually voiced, a tension that hadn’t been there moments ago tightened John’s form.

 

It was on the tip of his tongue to demand how John could not be entertaining the second thoughts that anyone in his position would be totally justified in experiencing, but Harold kept the words in, sensing that they might be as hurtful to hear as they were to ask.  Instead, he looked for a way to explain that wouldn’t make him out to be a total idiot.  As usual, there was nothing but the inconvenient truth.  “I was attempting to process your second thoughts when you walked in the room.”

 

“What?” John looked as confused as he sounded.

 

“I misinterpreted the empty bed.”

 

John’s gaze jumped from Harold’s face to the other side of the bed, then back again.  “I’m sorry.  I should have . . . Bear needed to go out and I thought I’d surprise you with breakfast.  I should have woken you before leaving.”

 

Hearing the legitimate regret, Harold softly dismissed, “No harm done and . . . you did surprise me.”

 

“Not in a good way.”  John still seemed stricken by the miscommunication.

 

“Oh, I don’t know.  I think I can honestly say that seeing you walk back in that door ranks as one of the best moments of my life.”  Harold wasn’t sure if he should reveal that much, but John was here and everything he’d thought lost by that empty bed was suddenly possible again.  “And, if that is Rossini’s Eggs Benedict I’m smelling, I’m willing to forgive anything short of homicide, and, maybe even that, if you wait till I’ve finished eating to kill me.”

 

To his intense relief, John chuckled and approached the bed.  “It’s Rossini’s Eggs Benedict.  Hope you’re hungry.  There are also bagels, those donuts from Rougens you like, Doggie Gourmet cupcakes for Bear, and green tea and coffee.”

 

“Sounds like you went on quite the spree this morning,” Harold said, a little stunned by the offerings.  He still hadn’t completely recovered from the empty bed.  To have John back, bearing this veritable feast, was disconcerting.  He wasn’t even used to seeing this man happy.  To know that what they’d done together here last night had caused John's obvious joy was almost humbling.

 

John’s face returned to its normal somber set as he answered, but the eyes that met his were different than usual, gentler. “It’s been a long time since there’s been anything to celebrate.”

 

“For me as well,” Harold assured his partner.

 

Their gazes locked.  Harold thought there was every possibility he would drown in those deep, blue depths.  They were totally entrancing, and not just because of the emotion in them.  John's eyes were an unusual color.  Not pale blue like Harold's own.  Nor were they a deep blue or violet.  They seemed to have an almost aquamarine cast to them, like tropical reef waters, rare and stunning.  The unusual color made them highly attractive and a bit disconcerting at the same time.

 

When the moment felt like it might shatter, John suggested, “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

 

Realizing that there were certain biological functions that had to be dealt with before he could celebrate anything, Harold said, “I just woke up.  I, er, have to . . . .”

 

John nodded and turned to put his bags down on the dresser.

 

Harold found himself unexpectedly frozen.  Mornings were his worst time of day.  Everything was stiff and achy after being immobile all night.  To have to go through the process of hauling himself out of bed like some geriatric fossil and then walk naked past this handsome, fully dressed man . . . He was already feeling like he was playing out of his league here with John.  He didn’t know if he were up to watching that warm light in John’s eyes change into disappointment or something worse.

 

Harold jumped as a blue bundle of fabric came between his downcast gaze and the blanketed knees he was staring at.  Shocked, he recognized his silk robe that he’d hung in the closet on the other side of the room earlier this week.

 

“It’s cold in the hall.  You better put this on,” John said.  “Is that little table you had in here when I was recuperating still on this floor?”

 

“It's in the Restoration Room,” Harold answered.

 

“I’ll go get it and get the food set out.”  With that, John bustled out of the room.

 

It was almost like his partner had read his mind, Harold thought as relief swamped through him.  It wasn’t that far of a stretch.  In John’s time with the CIA, his life had depended on his ability to read people.  Harold knew it wouldn't take genius level intelligence for anyone to figure out that he mightn’t be comfortable unclothed in front of this near perfect physical specimen.  But, even so, John’s gesture was incredibly thoughtful.

 

Bear watched John walk out, looked between the retreating Reese and Harold, then sat down beside the bed and went back to staring at Harold.

 

Harold was used to Bear’s observation in the mornings.  The dog didn’t bother him.

 

Making sure the blankets weren’t tangled around his feet, he lifted them up and stiffly swung his legs out of the bed in an almost straight line.  Angling his feet down, he reached his left hand out and braced himself on the night table and cautiously trusted his weight to his feet.  His right knee protested, but didn’t buckle.  Breathing a sigh of relief, he picked his robe up off the bed, slid into it, and located his slippers right where he’d left them in front of the nightstand a couple of nights ago, and started his slow way to the men’s room down the hall, Bear right on his heels.

 

His neck, hip, and knee all ached the same as usual.  As he did every morning when the pain hit, Harold reminded himself that he’d feel better as the day progressed and everything loosened up a bit.  He just wished . . . well, it was awkward having John around to witness his morning misery.  Normally, Harold was up for hours by the time John arrived at the library, or else he had gone through all this at home and was more mobile by the time he got here.

 

He would have liked to have brushed his teeth, taken a shower, shaved, and dressed before rejoining John, but mindful of their cooling breakfast, Harold used the facilities as quickly as possible, washed his hands, and headed back down the hall.

 

In the few minutes he was gone, his capable partner had transformed the small, thin table he’d retrieved into a buffet.  Their two breakfasts' Styrofoam boxes were still tightly shut, but John had opened up the bagel bag and pastry box.  He’d also gotten cream cheese and butter for the bagels.  They were on the table in front of the bagel bag.  One of the stores John had visited had supplied disposable plates and plastic cutlery.  It was all laid out and waiting for him when Harold returned to the room.  John had even brought two hard backed chairs from the Renovation Room and set them up in front of the table.

 

“This is amazing,” Harold said, too touched by the thoughtfulness to worry about his awkward gait as he approached the smorgasbord and took the empty chair beside John.  As soon as he was settled, Bear lay down at his feet and rested his snout on Harold’s left fleece slipper.  

 

Taking his eyes off the mouthwatering feast before him, Harold found John watching him with the strangest expression.  Trying to curb his paranoia, he said, “I’ve never seen that look before.”

 

John seemed to catch himself. 

 

The part of Harold that was all too conscious of the injuries that were never going to heal waited for the dreaded, tense apology most people uttered when caught staring at his crippled body.  But instead of looking guilty or any of the other unpleasant possibilities Harold’s battered self-image anticipated, John just offered him that shy smile again and shrugged, “I've never had this before.”

 

“Breakfast?” Harold quizzed with a bit of his usual sass, relaxing at John’s self-deprecating attitude.

 

That earned him a legitimate chuckle.  “No, not breakfast.  Normal.”

 

“Normal?” Harold repeated.  “Squatting in an abandoned, cavernous library is normal to you?”

 

“Not the location, but . . . look at you,” John directed, as if the words were self-explanatory.

 

Since John had used the word _normal_ to describe whatever he was trying to share and not _decrepit_ , Harold tried to grasp what his partner was reaching for and failed miserably.  “I don’t think I’m seeing what you’re seeing.”

 

“That’s because I’m not sitting here in my robe and fuzzy slippers with my dog sleeping on my foot.  It’s nice to be part of that picture and not just peeking in on it from the cold.”

 

Finally apprehending what John was trying to tell him, Harold felt almost dizzy as his reality shifted again.  Here he was, sitting here quietly freaking out, worrying that John was going to get a good look at him in the cold light of day and run for it, and all John was doing was enjoying the moment.  He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this gift, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let his insecurities jeopardize it.  Finding the emotional equivalent of his sea legs, Harold softly offered, “Or observing it on a computer monitor.”

 

“You do get it.”  John seemed pleased.

 

“I do.”  Harold reached out to open his breakfast container.  Still not able to stare into John’s eyes and talk about these personal things, he addressed his words to the fragrant food revealed.  “I lived with Grace for three years.  You’d think I’d miss the . . . intimacy the most, but . . . it’s losing the quiet companionship that hurts the worst.”

 

"Jessica and I only had a handful of long weekends," John said.  "We rarely made it out of bed."

 

"Nothing wrong with that," Harold said, peeking back up at his partner to find those eyes studying him with something like wonder.

 

"This feels good, Harold."

 

The raw emotion in those words ambushed Harold, as John's openness about his feelings for him so often did.  He couldn't count the number of times that he'd be monitoring the aural feed on a case and hear John tell someone something along the lines that a good man had saved him.  John never muted the phone or seemed the least bit embarrassed that Harold was listening in.  Each and every time John said something like that, Harold would feel the bottom of his stomach drop out because he knew he was unworthy of the honor this much-betrayed man paid him.  Harold was aware how . . . aggressively he'd sought John Reese out for his skills.  Back then, John had been a tool vital to Harold's venture and, while nothing he had told John in those initial interactions was untrue, his intention for hiring John hadn't been to save Reese from the living hell the man had been trapped in.  And, Harold now realized that saving this heroic man should have been his primary goal, not simply a collateral benefit.

 

But how could he possibly convey any of that to his partner?  Right now, John was expressing his appreciation for the miracle that was happening between them.  While Harold knew he owed John an apology for not being the savior John viewed him as, this wasn’t the time.

 

The lump John's words had left in his throat felt as big as one of Bear's slobber tennis balls.  Harold gulped around it and grated out, "To me, too."

 

The words really weren't what he wanted to say, but they seemed enough to convey the emotions he was feeling to those watching eyes.

 

The tension that always gave John's face a pinched, hunted look seemed to lift from his features as John turned his attention to his breakfast.

 

Harold’s empty stomach made itself known as he opened up his own meal.  The Eggs Benedict was still warm and just as delicious as when he ate it in the diner.  John finished first, as usual.  Harold could feel his partner watching him as he ate, could feel the questions John wasn't asking.

 

"It's going to start feeling awkward between us again if you don't say what's on your mind," Harold said, meeting John's gaze as he took another bite.  He steeled himself to hold John's eyes and not squirm.  He hadn't lied yesterday about trusting John, but any level of exposure was always difficult for him.  He could see his opening startled John.

 

After some consideration, John softly offered, "I guess I'm a little . . . confused – happy, but confused," John added, as if determined to sideline all possible misinterpretations.  "I didn't think I was you type."

 

"My type?" Harold questioned, buying time.

 

"I'm about as different from Grace Hendricks as you can get."

 

Even her name still hurt.  Harold had spent months trying to process how he could miss Grace and want John at the same time.  A bitter wave of guilt swept through him.  He really had no business being here with John like this.  He was still so confused.  He'd fought these feelings for his partner for so long.  Wanting John felt like such a betrayal of Grace, but . . . he needed John, needed him in ways he didn't even understand.  But how could he explain any of that?

 

Harold didn't know how to answer John's question, but he knew he owed his partner some type of explanation.  Last night could have gone so wrong after he'd slipped up and revealed the secret he'd intended to take to his grave.  John was sitting here asking for an explanation with that unnerving glow in his eyes that had been there since they'd kissed last night.  His partner's question wasn't the derisive inquisition and shameful rejection he'd fully expected in the alley last night.  

 

Taking a deep breath, Harold gave his partner the truth, "One person hardly constitutes a _type_."

 

"What do you mean _one person_?"

 

"I mean Grace.  A type implies that someone is attracted to a series of people who share specific attributes, like blond hair or dark skin or biker tattoos."

 

"So your other lovers weren't artistic free spirits?" John asked with that warm tone in his voice that had been wreaking havoc with Harold's control for the last six months.

 

Trying to hide how every muscle in his body tensed up, Harold gave a negative shake of his head.  Remembering his promise never to lie to John, he braced himself and self-consciously offered, "I've only been intimate with two people in my life."

 

John's eyes widened in shock.  After a quiet moment, he asked, "Grace and Nathan?"

 

It was a logical conclusion.  Totally wrong, of course.

 

"Grace and you," Harold corrected.  Knowing what this experienced, handsome man must be thinking of him, he reminded John, "I wasn't lying when I told you I wasn't good at human interaction."

 

Feeling utterly exposed, Harold stared down at the decimated breakfast before him.  He nearly jumped out of his skin when John's hand gently covered his clenched fist on the table.  Almost afraid of what he'd see, he looked up and met John's eyes.

 

John wasn't staring at him like he was some kind of freak or joke.  Harold had only seen glimpses of the expression John was wearing once or twice in their association, usually when something unexpected had nearly ripped the man's heart out.

 

"I was just trying to figure out how I fit into your life now," John said, almost apologetically.  "I don't have any more questions, Harold."

 

Harold gulped in some much needed air.  Returning his attention to his congealing eggs, he admitted, "I promised I'd never lie to you.  I – I don't know how this happened.  I didn't want to feel these things for you."

 

His breakfast lurched around in his stomach as his muscles clenched up with the horrified realization of how what he'd just said to John must have sounded.

 

"I know."

 

Harold's gaze snapped back to John's face.  "What do you know?  How can you know?  I don't even – "

 

"Harold, you're the most ethical man I've ever met.  I know you.  We're partners in what we do, but, technically, I still work for you.  If I hadn't kissed you last night, you would never have said a word to me about how you felt or made a move on me, would you?"

 

Harold barely got the word, "No," out around his tight throat.

 

"And I'm guessing that you're probably still pretty conflicted about whether what we did last night means you're breaking promises you made to Grace."

 

Everything in him froze at that gentle analysis.  Harold couldn't think, let alone respond to John's unnervingly accurate appraisal.  Forcing himself to take a breath, he grasped at humor to keep from falling completely apart.  "Were you born a telepath or did the CIA do secret experiments on you to turn you into one?"

 

John's smile had that same sweet shyness Harold had never seen before last night.  "No.  I figure that's how I'd be feeling in your position."

 

"Am I betraying her?" Harold heard himself ask. 

 

"She thinks you're dead.  She's mourning you, but she's moved on with her life," John said.  "It's harder for you, because you didn't break up with Grace.  Circumstances forced you to walk away from the person you loved most in this world – to keep her safe.  So for you, moving on feels like a betrayal.  I know you still love her, still miss her.  But just because you miss someone, doesn't mean you have to be alone." 

 

"That makes it sound like . . . like I'm using you . . ."  _Was that what he was doing?_

 

Harold saw the same uncertainty flash through John's eyes.  He could almost feel his partner's pain.  Harold knew his own dismay must have been obvious, because after a frozen moment, when Harold felt as if everything was going to fall apart, John took a deep breath and said in a quiet tone, "A lot of people have used me.  I don't think that's what’s going on here."

 

"You don't?"

 

John seemed to study him for a moment before answering, "I don't think either of us was expecting what happened last night.  It rocked both our worlds."

 

"Last night feels . . . very far away right now," Harold admitted.

 

"No further than this," John said, giving the hand he still held another squeeze.

 

Harold looked from those bruised knuckles up to John’s face.  His mouth ran dry at the understanding in John’s eyes.  Clearly, his partner had seen through him to the whirlwind of conflicting emotions spiraling through him.  He searched for something to say, but while his mind was chasing itself in circles, still locked in a nightmare vision of his honesty driving John away, John scooted his chair closer and wrapped his arms around him.  And, as suddenly as that, last night was there between them again.

 

John took his mouth the way the ex-CIA operative normally cleared out a mob bar, fast and unrelenting.  Harold's doubts and self-consciousness didn't stand a chance against the sheer determination in those lips that still tasted salty and greasy from their breakfast.

 

John hadn't lied when he'd said that he couldn't be more unlike Grace.  While the quality of the feeling Harold felt towards these very dissimilar individuals was the same, the expression of that emotion couldn't be more different.  With Grace, their lovemaking had always been a slow, gentle affair.  She'd always waited for him to make the first move, and, Harold, being the cautious man that he was, never made a single move until he was absolutely certain.  Grace had never pushed him.  While John . . .

 

With John, he felt like was standing on a cliff, and every time John touched him, John pushed him off the edge.  It was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.  As John's mouth kneaded against his, demanding response, Harold felt like he was plummeting thousands of feet, desire fierce as canyon winds ripping through him, as he hurtled towards the dark, rocky chasms below.  Only, John never let him fall alone.  Those arms tightened around him, holding him close as John's body heat beckoned to his hungry flesh.

 

He was always so alone, so separate from all human contact.  Just being touched like this, it was like a narcotic.  John was so warm, so . . . safe.  Harold knew it was a ridiculous adjective to use to describe the single most deadly man he'd ever met.  Yet, lethal as John was, John Reese still made him feel completely protected.  And not even Harold's rampant insecurities could contest the legitimate hunger in the mouth taking his.  _John wanted him_.  Just as they had last night, those three words cycled through his isolated heart like redundant computer code, repeating over and over, the wonder of it never getting old.  The _whys_ and _hows_ of John's interest in him still eluded Harold's mind, but there was no contesting the proof in his arms.

 

John leaned closer to him, as if trying to get more of their upper bodies pressed together.  The ancient wooden chair he was sitting on creaked alarmingly.  John released him instantly and pulled back.

 

Harold gasped at the abrupt withdrawal.

 

"Are you done there?" John questioned in that low, near whisper that always sounded like he was in bed with you.

 

Harold nodded.  He didn't resist when John's hands settled on his elbows and guided him to his feet. 

 

Bear moved over to his dog bed when Harold disturbed his sleep.

 

Then John and he were kissing again and all thoughts of Bear and everything but this amazing man were blasted from his mind.  John leaned into him and their whole fronts pressed tight together. 

 

Harold could feel John's left hand circling his back, while John's right squeezed between them to unbutton the shirt he was wearing.  His partner's jacket and white shirt both hit the floor at nearly the same time.  Still locked in the kiss, John shifted a little, leaving one shoe, then the other where he was standing.  Another shift and dip of his left shoulder, and one of John's socks joined the pile.  The move pressed their groins bodies even closer together.

 

Harold's good and bad knee both seemed to turn to jello at the same time.  He clutched at John, but his partner was removing his second sock. 

 

Rather than topple them both to the floor, Harold tore his mouth free and sank back down onto the chair that was thankfully still right behind him.  Wishing he weren't such a hopeless, physical wreck, Harold searched for something to say that wouldn't come out as an apology.  He felt his eyes widen as he caught sight of the impressive erection that was tenting the front of John slacks directly in front of him.

 

Forgetting about the momentary awkwardness, Harold reached out without thinking, took hold of the pants' waistband and undid the fastening.  His fingers trembling, he carefully unzipped John.

 

Harold had sketchy, almost fevered memories of this part of John's anatomy from their lovemaking last night.  For the last six months, he'd entertained any number of fantasies about slowly removing the suit from John Reese.  But fantasy was nothing compared to the real thing.  His fantasies hadn't had warm flesh.  They hadn't made the needy noise that John seemed to be fighting to hold back and failing.  They didn't have John's sweet scent to them.  John hadn't been wearing white briefs under the pants in a single one of those steamy, late night scenarios, so seeing that impressive flesh move and pulse larger through white cotton was an entirely unanticipated boon.

 

Once again, Harold's hands worked without conscious direction.  Gripping the skin-warmed elastic waistband, he quickly peeled down the briefs.

 

John was slender all over.  While all his muscles were well delineated, John wasn't bulky and muscle bound.  He had a runner or a swimmer's long, graceful form.  His soft skin was scarred in a disturbing number of places.  But John's scars weren't deformities, like Harold's own.  They were like a knight's battle trophies.  They seemed to enhance his masculinity, rather than mar it.

 

Harold's breath caught in his chest as he came eye to eye, as it were, with John's sex.  Even here, John was thin and long.  His flesh was the deep wine color John had described last night in that rambling oratory that had shaken Harold's world.  His partner's penis rose demandingly up from a neat thatch of dark curls.  The testicles below were a pink so deep they were nearly red.

 

Harold was abruptly reminded that, while he had done some research over the past few months, this was the first time he'd ever tried to please another man.  Last night, John had simply taken hold of his hand and guided his actions, which had been wonderful.  But this morning, John seemed willing to let Harold make the first move. 

 

Harold wanted to give his partner more than the hand job he'd managed last night.  He'd dreamed about this – hot fantasies where John would be standing before him like this and he would swallow John whole.  But in all of those fantasies, Harold himself had been healthy and undamaged.  His neck and body had been nimble and mobile.  Faced with reality, Harold couldn't help but consider that the crippled shell his mind was trapped in these days would be damaged if John thrust too hard and. . . John was so big . . . 

 

Cowed by all the things that could go wrong, Harold froze.

 

John's palm cupped his cheek, not trying to force Harold to do anything, just touching him.

 

The gentle contact drew his reluctant gaze up to John's face.  He knew his partner would be able to read everything he was feeling in his eyes.  Even so, he let John look his full.

 

Remarkably, there was no censure in John's expression or tone as he questioned, "Too much reality?"

 

Harold shivered at hearing his own thoughts voiced aloud. 

 

"No, I mean . . ." Having no clue what he meant, Harold released a deep breath and looked back down, ashamed.  He was nearly fifty-eight years old.  A man his age should have the experience to please a lover.  But John's body was almost completely new territory to him and his own body was such an embarrassing disappointment.

 

John hissed in a sharp inhalation as the warm air of Harold's breath rustled across his groin, visibly stirring his pubic hair.  The painful looking erection in front of Harold jerked in reaction.

 

Seeing that visible indication of John's continued interest, Harold tried to get a hold of his racing anxieties.  Finding honesty, if not courage, he continued, "If by _reality_ , you mean my own limitations, then, yes, reality is a little challenging at the moment.  You, on the other hand, are exquisite."  He glanced up in time to catch John blush.

 

"Do you know what I'd really like?"

 

"A partner who knew what he was doing and some ability to do it?" Harold suggested, his mouth running the way it did whenever he was nervous.

 

John smiled down at him and shook his head.  "I'd like you to touch me.  Just take me in your palm like you did last night.  Don't worry about anything more than that.  I watch your hands all the time, Harold.  How deft your fingers are on the keyboard.  I'd really love to feel them on me."

 

As it had last night when nerves had gotten the better of him, John's voice calmed him.  He could tell from John's expression that his desire was painful now.  He could also sense how John was forcing himself past his normal reticence – for his sake – because John cared for him.

 

Swallowing past the lump clogging his throat, Harold collected that moist flesh into his right hand.  John's cock was an amazing mixture of hard and soft flesh.  It twitched in Harold's hand and grew even bigger as John released a whistling breath between his teeth.

 

Harold gave an experimental squeeze, causing John's hands to jump to his shoulders for support as if his legs were going to give out on him.  The angle was very different from when Harold touched himself, but, even so, John's cock felt very natural in his hand, like it belonged there.  Gaining courage, Harold gave an experimental stroke that made John give one of those choked back cries he'd made last night.

 

The sound went right through Harold, touching off a trembling deep inside him.  But it wasn't fear. 

 

His free hand found its way to the velvet softness of John's balls.  He rolled them like a pair of dice, loving how they felt in his palm and how John's cock responded to the action. 

 

Like himself, John was circumcised.  Harold watched a sparkling bead of preseminal fluid seep out the slit, glistening like a crystal.  He was almost hypnotized by how it caught the light.  Without conscious volition, he leaned forward.  His tongue darted out to capture that glittering gem on its tip.  The salty flavor blasted through him, lighting him up like that Ecstasy drug the fake Jordan Hester had dosed him with last year, even as John's scent surrounded him. 

 

Remembering what he used to like himself when Grace would do this, Harold moved his tongue under John's cockhead and flicked it across that magic spot.

 

His quiet partner let out a shocked shout that rocked the room and Harold ended up with a mouthful of cock.  He wasn't sure who had moved to make that happen.  It seemed to be a case of simultaneous combustion.

 

All he knew was suddenly he couldn't breathe and his jaw just hadn't been made to stretch that far open.  He felt like a king cobra, his mouth was open so wide.  But, it was either that or let his teeth scratch John's skin as he slid deep into his mouth.  Part of him waited for the pain to hit, but, although he was shocked that things had proceeded to where they were so quickly, his neck didn't get jerked around.  After a moment, Harold forgot to worry.  He concentrated on trying to figure out how to breathe around that big cock.  Each gasped in hit of oxygen carried John's musky scent.  It danced through him like the expensive champagne that Nathan had loved, igniting fires that he'd feared long dead.  He wanted to touch this man, to know him in every way possible. 

 

It took a bit of work, but Harold eventually figured out how to breathe and suck.  He felt like an absolute bumbler, but his first try elicited a prolonged, "Harrrrrrroooooolllldddddd . . . ." from his quaking lover.

 

If his mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied, he would have grinned at how wild his always controlled partner sounded.  Finding a rhythm to the sucking/breathing thing, Harold did his best to give John back some of that incredible pleasure his friend had gifted him with last night.  To his astonishment, his actions seemed to reduce John to a mindless sounding chant that consisted of Harold's name and the word _yes_.

 

The balls in Harold's left hand seemed to draw in tighter to John's body and, the next thing Harold was aware of was a river of hot fluid pulsing against the back of his throat.  He choked, tried to swallow around the cock still in his mouth, then choked again.  That thick, warm liquid backed up into his mouth.  The briny, bitter taste filled his reality.  The germaphobe in him almost had heart failure when he realized he was swallowing another man's semen – which was quite a feat for someone too squeamish to taste his own.  But the shocking eroticism of it all won out over his raving neurosis, and, for once, he was able to banish all queasiness.  

 

He drank John down and held his cock in his mouth until he felt the flesh shrink as the last shudders played through John.  Only then did Harold reluctantly release him.

 

Like a marionette whose strings were cut, John sank down to his knees in front of Harold's chair.  John's arms slipped around Harold's waist, hugging him, as his partner buried his face in the blue robe covering his lap.  John was panting like he'd run ten miles with the Russian mob on his heels.

 

Harold's hand sank into John's soft, short hair and stroked.  He was completely stunned by his own actions. 

 

A long time passed without John making any attempt at moving.  Finally, Harold asked in a raspy, sore throat voice, "Are you all right?"

 

John released a shuddery breath and raised up.  "I should be asking you that.  Your neck . . . "

 

"Is fine," Harold assured the worried man at his feet.  He shivered at the expression in John's eyes. 

 

"You're a lot more than fine," John replied, sitting back on his heels, his hands sweeping along Harold's waist to where his robe was tied shut.  Those long fingers undid the knot, baring Harold to the cool morning air and John's hot gaze.  Harold wasn't sure which caused his resultant shiver.

 

When Harold looked down at himself, all he could see were the horrible, puckered wounds all over his right hip, lower stomach, and thigh.  His erection seemed out of place against them, as if the ugliness of the maimed flesh somehow tainted it.

 

"There's my beautiful Harold," John said in a gruff tone.

 

Harold's gaze jumped to his friend's face, searching for the pity or disappointment he knew must be there behind the kind words, but finding only open hunger.  Amazed, Harold recognized that his partner wasn't humoring him or faking interest.  He'd seen this man bluff often enough to know when John was scamming someone.  There wasn't anything of that talented player in his partner's expression.  John's eyes were nearly glittering with arousal as looked down at Harold's bared groin.  John seemed to be focused on Harold's erection, rather than the mutilated flesh it rested against.

 

John's right hand reached for him, his head lowered, and Harold felt his cock plunged into that wet heat that had taken him to paradise last night.  Then John started sucking and all thought stopped.  Sensation exploded through him, pleasure so sharp it hurt. 

 

Harold's hands frantically gripped John's bare shoulders as his partner's head began to bob up and down as John's mouth drove him to higher and higher peaks of pleasure.  Delight danced through him like quicksilver, shimmering and spreading everywhere.  His bones and muscles seemed to liquefy, throbbing with need. 

 

If he'd been with anyone else right now, Harold knew he would have been worrying about how he was going to thrust without hurting his injured hip while sitting on the chair like this, but his partner seemed to completely understand his limitations.  John sucked him so hard, rising up and down on his hungry flesh with such perfect rhythm that Harold didn't need to move.  John did it all, bringing him to explosion point and beyond.

 

Harold cried out as all that pleasure peaked in a blinding moment of utter euphoria.  Drawing ragged breaths, he felt himself explode deep in John's throat. 

 

Just like he had last night, John swallowed him down, seeming eager for every drop.

 

Harold's orgasm seemed to go on forever.  Halfway through it, John gave a strange grunt that vibrated through Harold's cock.  An instant later, warm, wet spurts splattered against Harold's left leg. 

 

Stunned, Harold realized that John had come again . . . just from sucking him off. 

 

The last of Harold's hurtful insecurities melted to gooey softness at that unbelievable discovery.  He didn't understand how it was possible, but this incredibly handsome man clearly desired his broken body.  In some ways, that knowledge was more healing than the sex.

 

It was a long time before his pleasure-blasted senses returned to him.  When they did, Harold gasped in cool breaths and stared down at where John's head was resting in his lap again.  John's warm breaths moving over the thin trail of hair below his naval made Harold shiver.

 

Harold carded his fingers through his partner's soft, dark hair, noticing how the gray at John's temples was starting to lay claim to the rest of his hair.  Funny, his own gray bothered him so much that he had his stylist color it the mousey brown it had been before he'd hit the half century mark, but on John, the gray looked incredibly sexy.

 

John slowly raised himself up, seeming to pry himself away from Harold's body.

 

Yet another shiver shimmered through Harold as their eyes met.

 

"You cold?" John asked in a raspy, low voice.  Before Harold could answer, his partner reached out and carefully closed his robe back over him and tied it shut.

 

John's action was the kind of thing that had inspired Harold's desire for this complicated loner.  John's file had shown him to be a man of honor in a world where morals were a liability.  When he'd hired John Reese, Harold had expected the nobility.  What he hadn't anticipated was how gentle and considerate this lethal man was in his personal interactions with those he cared for.

 

"Not cold," Harold answered.  He was still trembling inside.  Not simply from the orgasm, but from the emotions it had unleashed.

 

John seemed to understand.

 

"We fit, Harold.  Don't we?"  John couldn't possibly be as worried as he sounded.

 

Harold gulped around a suddenly tight throat and nodded. 

 

John didn't seem comforted by his response.  The relaxed expression that had gentled John's face with afterglow faded.  Harold watched his partner bite his lower lip, the corners of John's mouth and eyes tensing with worry.  "You're already thinking.  I can see it in your eyes.  The only time you're this quiet is when something is wrong.  Are we moving too fast?  I know it got pretty intense before – "

 

John looked as if his world were crashing down around him.

 

"No.  It's not the speed.  It's . . ."

 

"Yes?" John prompted gently, still watching him as if his life were riding on Harold's words.

 

"You know I'm a . . . careful man," Harold began, trying to sort this out in his mind even as he explained it to John.  Recognizing that his opening sentence was in no way either explanative or reassuring, he quickly continued, "Any action I take, I've always anticipated every variable beforehand and plotted out my response, like I do when we're working a number."

 

"And?" John still seemed confused by the words that Harold felt conveyed his situation concisely.

 

"When my . . . feelings towards you changed, I only saw two probabilities – unrequited, hidden interest or rejection, were I so foolish as to reveal myself.  This . . ." Harold raised his leg off the floor and gestured to where John's semen was drying in the dark hair by his scarred knee, "didn't factor into the equation at all."

 

"Love isn't an equation, Harold."  John didn't seem to have taken offense at the suggestion; he seemed more amused than upset. 

 

"I know that," Harold snapped.  "It's just that, there's usually some sense to it.  I mean, when Grace and I became involved, I understood why.  We had so much in common and our courtship was extremely romantic and protracted.  Our love making was the logical conclusion . . . "

 

"You orchestrated your courtship like you do our cases, didn't you?" John asked.  He didn't seem horrified or judgmental about the possibility.  His eyes had that same fond light that was often in them when they found some common ground upon which to relate to each other.

 

Harold nodded.

 

"And with me it's different," John said.  The words were somehow a question.

 

Abruptly uncomfortable, Harold nodded, waved his hand down towards his messy leg again, and tried to explain, "I don't understand that."

 

"That?" John repeated, seeming lost.

 

"You actively want me.  You're not faking it or humoring me.  Even I can see that.  It doesn't make any sense."  Only after Harold finished speaking did he realize how inherently insulting his words had been.

 

But John still didn't seem angry with him.  When John answered the near-accusation, he did so slowly, his voice soft, "Love isn't based only on common interests and romantic dates.  You left out one of the most important factors in your equation."

 

"What important factor?"  Harold asked, the larger part of his mind reeling at how casually John classified what they were doing as _love_.

 

"Passion."

 

"Passion," Harold repeated, trying to process how the word could possibly apply to his broken body and failing miserably.

 

"We have incredible chemistry.  It's what makes us work so well together.  Last night, that chemistry exploded into passion."

 

"I guess I'm having a hard time understanding how you can feel that way about me," Harold admitted.

 

He appreciated that John didn't immediately shrug off his words. 

 

After a quiet moment, John's fingers carefully touched Harold's robe on top of where the worst scar on Harold's hip was hidden as he asked, "Because of these?"

 

"That and . . ." Completely overwhelmed, Harold challenged, "Look at me, John.  There's nothing here to attract a man like you.  The only two things I've ever been good at were computers and making money.  I'm nearly fifty-eight years old.  I've only had one other lover in my life – "

 

"And that's supposed to be a bad thing?" John interrupted him.

 

"It's hardly normal," Harold said, trying and failing to curb his defensiveness.

 

"You waited for years until you found the right person to love and then you gave her your whole heart.  How is that bad?  I'm the only other person you've ever trusted enough to let get that close to you.  Do you know how special that makes me feel?  Everything about you is like that, Harold."

 

Harold stared at his partner.  John meant what he'd just said.  "Everything?"

 

"Everything.  I know that these injuries are making it hard for you to see what you are, but you're not just a brain.  You're something rare and wonderful."

 

"I . . . thank you.  I . . . I don't feel that way.  I feel . . . broken . . . on so many levels."  He couldn't even look at John after admitting that.

 

Harold felt the air stir.  John had just risen from the floor, he realized.  A second later, warm hands gripped his elbows to gently guide him to his feet.  The resultant wobble barely mattered, so fast did John take him in his arms.

 

Harold buried his face against that smooth chest, breathing John in as he let the warmth of the hug seep through him.  He settled his palms on John's back, as John's right hand started circling over the back of his robe in smooth, reassuring circles.  Needing more support, he leaned more of his weight onto John, angling himself so that his left hip took the brunt of the pressure where it rested against John.

 

"Maybe we're both broken, Harold," John softly suggested.  "Maybe this will heal us both."

 

Harold leaned stiffly back so he could peer up into John's face.  "You feel broken?"

 

"I was living on the street when you found me," John reminded him.  "That's hardly an indication of good mental health."

 

"You were betrayed by the people you worked for and shot by your partner.  That would shake anyone's stability.  You just needed a purpose you could believe in again.  You're not broken," Harold denied, a fierce, protective emotion sweeping through him.

 

John's hands tightened around Harold's biceps.  "You're the thing I believe in, Harold."

 

Harold could read the truth of that in John's eyes.  Beyond that, he could see how very much John felt for him.

 

"I need you to believe in me," John continued.

 

Harold gulped around the emotion that was trying to choke him.  "I do.  It's . . . me I doubt."

 

John bent down to press a kiss on his forehead before he leaned back to meet his gaze again and said, "Okay.  You tell me your worst case scenario and I'll tell you mine."

 

"Yours?" Harold echoed.

 

"What?  Do you think you're the only one with insecurities?" John gently chided.  Seeming to read his curiosity, John offered, "There's a part of me that's terrified that as soon as the heat cools off a bit, you're going to remember the things in my file and run for the hills."  Although the words were brashly offered, the sudden fear in John's eyes was very real.  "The one thing Kara pounded into my head over the years was that what we did set us apart from decent human beings.  You're the most decent human I ever met, Harold.  A monster like me doesn't belong in your world – "

 

"Stop.  Please?" Harold reached up and gently covered John's mouth with his fingers.

 

John immediately ceased speaking, but his eyes continued the conversation.

 

"You're not a monster.  I'm sorry for . . . dredging all this up, John," Harold quickly apologized, wondering how he could ever get things back on a normal keel.  "It was . . . weak and self-indulgent – "

 

John's hand removed Harold's from where it covered his mouth, lifted it to his own lips, and pressed a fierce kiss against it.

 

"Harold, you were hurt so bad that you can't believe someone could love you.  That's not self-indulgence or weakness."

 

His blood felt like it solidified in his veins at how casually John remarked upon his altered reality.  "No one other than Grace ever wanted me that way.  It's not just the injuries.  I never fit in anywhere." 

 

"Ssssh," John soothed.  "Come over here and sit down on the bed.  Let's get comfortable."

 

Harold allowed himself to be led back to the bed.  At John's gesture, he swung his legs up onto the mattress, just as stiff and awkward as usual.  But John's gaze wasn't judging him.

 

Harold settled back against the mountain of pillows and watched as his naked partner climbed in beside him, smooth and graceful as he was at everything.  The expression on John's sharp-featured face was the one he often wore on a case when he was trying to think something complicated through in those instants of life and death that determined their lives.

 

"You fit in with me.  You have from the start.  We'll work these things out," John said, his voice the same normal tone Harold heard through the phone link every day.  "It will be fine when we get through it."

 

"How do we get through it?  I feel like a neurotic mess." 

 

Humor sparked in those beautiful eyes of John's as he softly replied, "Harold, you _are_ a neurotic mess."

 

For a second, the words stung, but then when Harold saw John's expression and thought back on everything that happened in the last eighteen hours, the unavoidable truth made him chuckle.

 

John slid closer to him and said in that silky, flirtatious tone that destroyed every one of Harold's controls, "My brave, beautiful, paranoid, neurotic mess."  John made the last two words sound as sexy and complimentary as the previous, ludicrous adjectives.

 

Harold gasped as John undid his robe and bared him to the cool morning air.  Shivering, he reminded John, "You left out insecure."

 

"That, too.  And, um, well-hung," John added, his gaze sweeping down to Harold's lap.

 

Feeling those eyes move across him like a touch, Harold tried not to blush.  He laughed instead, loving this man very much.  "Okay, we've got insecure and well-hung covered.  What else do you like about your neurotic mess?"

 

"You really like hearing me talk, don't you?" John questioned, plainly amused.

 

Harold nodded.  "Your delusions are entertaining."

 

'Delusions, huh?"  John trailed his index finger so lightly over Harold's scarred thigh that it barely rustled the hair in the few uninjured areas.  But it had instant results in a more expressive expanse of flesh nearby.  "There's nothing delusional about that."

 

"No, that definitely falls under the category of miraculous," Harold said.  The look John gave him told him his partner had sensed the change in him.  Harold couldn't remember the last time anyone had known him that well, that they could tell what he was feeling by the slightest alteration of inflection.  Nathan, maybe.  But that hardly mattered now.  Hearing the question, John wasn't asking, Harold answered it anyway, "I haven't come this . . . reliably since before the explosion."

 

"The explosion at the Liberty Island Ferry?" John asked.  "You were there when your partner was killed?"

 

John's question accentuated how little real information Harold had entrusted to his current partner. 

 

He gave a tight nod.  "Nathan was angry with me because I wouldn't do anything to help the people on the Non Relevant List.  He had arranged to meet a reporter at the ferry.  He was going to tell the world about the Machine and . . . they blew him up.  There was blood all over everything, John."

 

"I'm sorry, Harold. I didn't know you were there with Ingram," John said, reaching out to touch his arm.  "That's where you got all these?" 

 

John's hand gestured down his right side.

 

Harold gave another miserable nod.  "When I woke up in triage, they were putting the sheet over Nathan's dead body a few feet away from me.  I didn't know if there had been surveillance before the explosion.  I knew the people who'd killed Nathan would be after me, so, I got up and staggered out a side entrance.  I could barely stand, much less walk.  When I finally went to an emergency room the next day, the doctor said I was in shock.  I'd exacerbated the neck injury by moving the way I did.  I couldn't even feel the hip and knee because of the nerve damage.  There was shrapnel embedded in the hip.  It's a wonder I didn't bleed out."

 

"God, Harold," John's hand squeezed his arm tighter.

 

"Last night was the first time I made love since the explosion.  I wasn't sure I'd be able to.  The doctors said there was no damage there, but . . . I've had a lot of trouble. . . coming.  After a while I just . . . stopped trying."

 

"I'm no shrink, but, you'd just lost your best friend, been forced to abandon your fiancé, and suffered catastrophic injuries all in the same day.  That's a lot of grief, Harold.  Depression can cause issues," John carefully suggested.

 

"Maybe you're right.  It's been better since you – "  Harold snapped his mouth shut, still not sure he should admit to his fantasies.  He might as well have blurted every one of them out, for all the good his restraint did him.  John's eyebrows tried to climb into his hairline as the telepath in his bed read his guilty secret.

 

"Since you started thinking about me that way?" John completed.

 

Harold nodded, feeling the heat in his cheeks.

 

"We're lovers now.  Why are you embarrassed about wanting me?"

 

"Neurotic mess, remember?" Harold reminded, just to see that smile of John's.  "But, seriously, you were right before.  About everything."

 

To his puzzlement, a somber shadow darkened John's eyes.  "Would it help with the guilt if I promised not to make trouble for you if things change in the situation with Grace?"

 

"What?"  Harold was so caught up in those horrible memories that he couldn't understand what John meant.

 

"You can't be with her because people are trying to kill you because of the Machine.  If that changes and you're not a danger to her anymore, you could go back to her.  If that happens, I won't stand in your way."

 

As Harold finally apprehended the gist of John's offer, he felt the bottom of his world drop out.  It was nearly a full minute before he could form a thought, the emotions ripping through him were so sharp.  That this noble man would make that kind of promise when John so clearly wanted him was . . . staggering. 

 

How painful that offer must have been.  Harold could see how upset John was by the prospect and, yet, he'd still voiced the offer.  Because John loved him.

 

When Harold could talk, he rasped out, "There's no going back.  Even if there were – I wouldn't.  You're not standing in for Grace, John.  I . . . love you.  Yes, I'm a neurotic mess and, yes, I still feel guilty as hell for falling for you and, yes, I know I'm playing way out of my league here with you, but . . . I love you.  Circumstance is not going to diminish that feeling, okay?"  When he ran out of words, Harold felt embarrassed by how fiercely he'd spoken. 

 

The expression on John's face removed all self-consciousness.  His partner's eyes were bright with moisture, his expression hard to define.  John looked like he was battling some powerful feelings himself.  "Love, not just want?"

 

Once again, Harold's mind was slow at unraveling the meaning, but at least it didn't take him as long to figure out what John was insinuating this time.  Abruptly, he remembered that line John had thrown at him last night about how John suspected it was more than sex Harold wanted from him.  Horrified, he realized that nothing he'd said or done last night or this morning had really answered that question.  They'd had sex.  John had spoken about love, but Harold himself had been so overwhelmed by his own insecurities and physical short comings that he'd never made his own feelings plain.  Instead, he'd asked this reticent man to court him with words – and John had.  But Harold had never paid John that same honor.  He'd never told John how he really felt about him.  Needing to rectify that mistake, Harold quickly answered, "The love came first.  The desire grew out of it."

 

"It did?"

 

John wasn't simply fishing for a compliment.  He looked like he was struggling to believe what Harold had just said.

 

Abruptly recalling how John had said he'd been used before, Harold chose his words with extreme care.  "I know that people in the kind of work we do, with the close calls we face, often need . . . "

 

"To have sex to celebrate surviving?" John suggested, obviously sensing his discomfort.

 

Harold gave a grateful nod.  "Yes.  But you know I'm not casual with my heart, John.  I don't . . . consider making love entertainment.  You said as much last night when we were talking."

 

John nodded.  "That doesn't mean I was right.  I learned a long time ago that just because one person in a relationship is feeling something that doesn't necessarily mean that the other person is feeling the same thing."

 

"You were right this time.  You're not filling in for Grace.  You're not just a convenient body.  I love you.  I have for a long time.  I should have just come out and told you that last night, but I suck at the human interaction thing," Harold ended on a completely frustrated note.

 

John was beside him on the mountain of pillows and kissing him almost before Harold even saw him move.  John's left arm spanned the pillow above Harold's head, not even attempting to slip behind his neck.  He was shocked by John's sensitivity to his physical limitations.  It would be so easy for his much stronger partner to exacerbate these old injuries with one careless move or even by leaning on him too hard, but John seemed to unconsciously know where to place his weight as he curled around Harold's good side.

 

Beyond the care with which John touched him, there was the completely unbelievable fact that he had another erection.  Lately, when thinking about John, he had occasionally been able to climax while masturbating, but it had been years since he'd come more than once.

 

Still locked in the endless kiss, John's right hand covered Harold's straining cock, rubbing against it with excruciatingly perfect pressure, completely avoiding the disaster area of Harold's right hip.

 

Harold heard himself whimper as the delight pierced him, spreading from that moving hand to every nerve ending he owned. 

 

John lifted his mouth and gulped in some much needed air, while Harold did the same.  Then John lowered his head again, this time not kissing his mouth, but his jaw.  That talented tongue poked out to trace down the cleft in Harold's chin.

 

"Mmmmmmn," Harold murmured.  "John, that feels . . . . aaaaahhhhhh . . . ."  His words ended on a moan as John's mouth moved to nuzzle his throat.  His entire body shuddered in reaction.

 

John's skillful fingers curled around Harold's cock, squeezing rhythmically, milking the hungry flesh, lighting every cell Harold owned with incandescent pleasure.

 

The fire swept through him as if he were dry tinder.  Every one of John's touches was like gasoline, igniting his flesh until all there was in his reality was burning sensation.  He couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't worry.  All he could do was feel. 

 

Harold cried out as the delight peaked to unbearable intensity.  Utterly unmoored, he felt himself spasm in a second, unbelievable orgasm that ripped him into another plane of being. 

 

John leaned close to kiss behind his ear as Harold came, whispering in that sexy, low voice, "Your body's not dead, not broken.  It's mine now, Harold.  And I'm going to take care of it and make you feel this good every single day."

 

Not even the insecure mess that Harold knew he was could doubt his partner's promise, not after the man had just raised the dead.  Every bit of him limp and spent from the climax, Harold simply lay there with John snuggled close, delighting in the lambent lassitude spreading through him.  Nothing hurt.  Nothing ached.  He felt . . . comfortable in his own body for the first time in years.

 

Feeling as if he were just going to drift away, Harold reached for John's hand that was resting on his chest. Twining their fingers, Harold found that John's were slick and sticky . . . from his own semen, Harold realized.  The day before yesterday, that discovery would have set his OCD into hyperdrive, but today, he just smiled, lifted the messy hand to his mouth and kissed it. 

 

John shifted closer, resting his mouth against Harold's shoulder. 

 

Harold's last conscious thought before he floated away was that John was right.  They did fit in with each other.  They were the perfect circuit.

 

*~*~*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
